The Heart of a Storm
by Masked Man 2
Summary: There could be no doubt; this storm was simply incredible. It seemed to ignite some feral passion deep within him, a passion that set his heart and pen alight...


**Author's Note: Hello, out there! For anyone who takes the time to read this, here's a little story for the awesome 2001 movie, **_**A Knight's Tale.**_** I've seen it four times, but this is my first venture into this fandom, so...don't blame me if it's terrible!**

**For perspective, this could take place anytime during or after the events in the movie.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own **_**A Knight's Tale**_**.**

There was a certain..._beauty_...to a storm, a certain air of mystery and raw power that was almost breathtaking. The staccato beats of the pouring rain, punctuated by the jarring crashes of thunder, made a hellish music that was oddly soothing in its fury. The brilliant flashes of lightning lit up the roiling, night-dark sky, and the whole world was cast into murky shadow. Truly, it was a sight fain to make even a blind man weep.

The beauty of the storm, however, was obscured to most by the fear it evoked. At the first rumble of thunder, tools and vocations were abandoned, children were anxiously called inside, and doors and windows were locked and barred against the imminent tempest. The weak-willed would jump and cry at every grumble or flash, and even the brave regarded Nature's rage with trepidation.

X X X

Only one human figure could be seen in the rain, sitting motionless in a half-flooded meadow some twenty-odd yards from a stand of tents. The slender, lanky body of the man was hunched over sheets of parchment, shielding them from the ravages of the weather. The scratchings of his pen were almost lost amidst the roaring of the rain and wind, and sly droplets made the ink run down the page like black blood. But the man paid no heed to that inconvenience, scribbling with a feverish, almost mad intensity that easily rivaled that of the storm.

A flash of lightning turned his vision momentarily white, and Geoffrey Chaucer finally glanced up from his writing. Half-lost in the labyrinth of letters on the page before him, he stared wonderingly at the angry sky, marveling at the myriad colors being stirred through it. They seemed to shift before his eyes, forming words, songs, poems, and he wrote them down as quickly as he was able, lest they be lost forever in the vast expanse of sky.

There could be no doubt; this storm was simply incredible. It seemed to ignite some feral passion deep within him, a passion that set his heart and pen alight. Ideas flitted through his mind, blowing faster than the howling wind, and trying to keep up with their alluring haste was almost physically painful.

Never before had he experienced such profound inspiration! Surely passion like this must have been every writer's dream! He had been thrown into a heavenly Hell, where earthly troubles were no more consequential than dancing motes of dust. Nothing existed to him but the storm, the pen, and the page.

So great was his ecstasy that he didn't even feel the rain that soaked him to the bone. He saw nothing, heard nothing, _felt nothing._ No, he was alone in the universe, left at the mercy of the fierce storm and the sidereal words.

He wrote for what seemed like hours, but perhaps it had only been mere minutes. Time simply ceased to exist; it had no place in the madness of his mind. Nature, though, clung stubbornly to Her brother Time, as though She were a barnacle on a rock. She clung to Him, and retained Her notion of His passing, and gradually, the roar of the rain receded to a murmur, the inky clouds lightened to a soft white, and the musical cacophony of lightning and thunder faded into silence. Doors were opened once more, and people finally dared to venture out-of-doors, staring at their wet streets with dismay. The storm was over.

X X X

Spent, Geoff put down his pen and raised his pale eyes to the skies once again. The words that had flooded his mind so strongly disappeared as quickly as shadows in the light, and all that was left was a deep, crushing exhaustion, tinged with only the slightest hint of lingering ecstasy. The force of the tempest had drained him, and for a moment, he felt hollow, yet strangely heavy, as though the weight of his mortal existence had returned with the unfortunate flight of his ideas.

Slowly, he lowered his gaze to the parchment on his lap; the last testament to the frenzied inspiration of the storm. It was a veritable mess: the parchment waved and cracked from the water that he hadn't been able to keep off of it, the ink ran wildly down the pages, and the words tangled together like thread. His weary mind could hardly make sense of the mad scribblings, and yet, he smiled.

"Beautiful," he whispered, his low voice cracking with emotion. And indeed, the chaos that was the work was something of a jewel, a sort of diamond in the rough. It was the product of a moment of madness, and moment of passion, a moment of genius. No amount of chaos could disguise the brilliance of that storm's inspiration.

Above him, the ghostly clouds parted, and a single sunbeam shone down onto the man, illuminating him and his jewel with an angelic light. "Absolutely beautiful."

**AN: Well, there you have it. In case you couldn't tell, I did write that during a thunderstorm, and I can attest to the fact that the words truly seem to flow off the pen (or pencil) in a storm like that.**

**Please remember to review!**


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